HIS WIFE
Wrayson drew a little breath and looked back at Sydney Barnes.
"You asked me a question," he said. "I believe I have heard of your
brother calling himself by some such name."
Barnes grasped him by the arm.
"Look here," he said, "come and repeat that to the young lady over there.
She's with me. It won't do you any harm."
Wrayson rose to his feet, but before he could move he felt Heneage's hand
fall upon his arm.
"Where are you going, Wrayson?" he asked.
Barnes looked up at him anxiously. His pale face seemed twisted
into a scowl.
"Don't you interfere!" he exclaimed. "You've done me enough harm, you
have. You let Mr. Wrayson pass. He's coming with me."
Heneage took no more notice of him than he would of a yapping terrier. He
looked over his head into Wrayson's eyes.
"Wrayson," he said, "don't have anything more to do with this business.
Take my advice. I know more than you do about it. If you go on, I swear
to you that there is nothing but misery at the end."
"I know more than you think I do," Wrayson answered quietly. "I know more
indeed than you have any idea of. If the end were in hell I should not
hold back."
Heneage hesitated for a moment. He stood there with darkening face, an
obstinate, almost a threatening figure. Passers-by looked with a gleam of
interest at the oddly assorted trio, whose conversation was obviously far
removed from the ordinary chatter of the loungers about the place. One or
two made an excuse to linger by--it seemed possible that there might be
developments. Heneage, however, disappointed them. He turned suddenly
upon his heel and left the room. Those who had the curiosity to follow
along the corridor saw him, without glancing to the right or to the left,
descend the stairs and walk out of the building. He had the air of a man
who abandons finally a hopeless task.
The look of relief in Barnes' face as he saw him go was a ludicrous
thing. He drew Wrayson at once towards the corner.
"Queer thing about this girl," he whispered in his ear. "She ain't like
the others about here. She just comes to make inquiries about a friend
who's given her the chuck, and whose name she says was Howard. I believe
it's Morry she means. Just like him to take a toff's name!"
"Wait a moment before we speak to her," Wrayson said. "How did you
find her out?"
"She spoke to me," Barnes answered. "Asked me if my name was Howard, said
I was a bit like the man she was looking for. Then I palled up to her,
and I'm pretty certain Morry was her man. I want her to go to the flat
with me and see his clothes and picture, but she's scared. Mr. Wrayson,
you might do me a good turn. She'll come if you'd go too!"
"Do you know why I am here to-night?" Wrayson asked.
"No! Why?"
"To meet that young woman of yours," Wrayson answered.
Barnes looked at him in amazement.
"What do you mean?" he asked quickly. "You don't know her, do you?"
His sallow cheeks were paler than ever. His narrow eyes, furtively raised
to Wrayson's, were full of inquisitive fear.
"No! I don't know her," Wrayson answered, "but I rather fancy, all the
same, that she is the young person whom I came here to meet to-night."
Barnes waited breathlessly for an explanation. He did not say a word, but
his whole attitude was an insistent interrogation point.
"You remember," Wrayson said, "that when you and I were pursuing these
investigations together, I made some inquiries of the woman at whose flat
your brother called on the night of his murder. I saw her again at Dinant
yesterday, and she told me of this young person. She also evidently
believed that the man for whom she was inquiring was your brother."
Barnes nodded.
"She told me that she was to have met a gentleman to-night," he said.
"Here, we must go and speak to her now, or she'll think that
something's up."
He performed something that was meant for an introduction.
"Friend of mine, Miss," he said, indicating Wrayson. "Knew my brother
well, lived in the flat just below him, in fact. Perhaps you'd like to
ask him a few questions."
"There is only one question I want answered," the girl replied, with
straining eyes fixed upon Wrayson's face, and a little break in her tone.
"Shall I see him again? If Augustus was really--his brother--where is he?
What has happened to him?"
There was a moment's silence. Sydney Barnes had evidently said nothing as
to his brother's tragic end. Wrayson could see, too, that the girl was on
the brink of hysterics, and needed careful handling.
"We will tell you everything," he said presently. "But first of all
we have to decide whether your Augustus Howard and Morris Barnes were
the same person. I think that the best way for you to decide this
would be to come home to my flat. Mr. Barnes' is just above, and I
dare say you can recognize some of his brother's belongings, if he
really was--your friend."
She rose at once. She was perfectly willing to go. They left the place
together and entered a four-wheeler. During the drive she scarcely opened
her lips. She sat in a corner looking absently out of the window, and
nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. She answered a remark of
Sydney Barnes' without turning her head.
"I always watch the people," she said. "Wherever I am, I always look
out of the window. I have always hoped--that I might see Augustus again
that way."
Wrayson, from his seat in the opposite corner of the cab, watched her
with growing sympathy. In her very conformity to type, she represented so
naturally a real and living unit of humanity. Her poor commonplace
prettiness was already on the wane, stamped out by the fear and trouble
of the last few months. Yet inane though her features, lacking altogether
strength or distinction, there was stamped into them something of that
dumb, dog-like fidelity to some object which redeemed them from utter
insignificance. Wrayson, as he watched her, found himself thinking more
kindly of the dead man himself. In his vulgar, selfish way, he had
probably been kind to her: he must have done something to have kindled
this flame of dogged, persevering affection. Already he scarcely doubted
that Morris Barnes and Augustus Howard had been the same person. Within a
very few minutes of her entering the flats there remained no doubt at
all. With a low moan, like a dumb animal mortally hurt, she sank down
upon the nearest chair, clasping the photograph which Sydney Barnes had
passed her in her hands.
For a few moments there was silence. Then she looked up--at Wrayson. Her
lips moved but no words came. She began again. This time he was able to
catch the indistinct whisper.
"Where is he?"
Wrayson took a seat by her side upon the sofa.
"You do not read the newspapers?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Not much. My eyes are not very good, and it tires me to read."
"I am afraid," he said gently, "that it will be bad news."
A little sob caught in her throat.
"Go on," she faltered.
"He is dead," Wrayson said simply.
She fainted quietly away.
Wrayson hurried downstairs to his own flat for some brandy. When he
returned the girl was still unconscious. Her pocket was turned inside out
and the front of her dress was disordered. Sydney Barnes was bending
close over her. Wrayson pushed him roughly away.
"You can wait, at least, until she is well," he said contemptuously.
Sydney Barnes was wholly unabashed. He watched Wrayson pour brandy
between the girl's lips, bathe her temples, and chafe her hands. All the
time he stood doggedly waiting close by. No considerations of decency or
humanity would weigh with him for one single second. The fever of his
great desire still ran like fire through his veins. He did not think of
the girl as a human creature at all. Simply there was a pair of lips
there which might point out to him the way to his Paradise.
She opened her eyes at last. Sydney Barnes came a step nearer, but
Wrayson pushed him once more roughly away.
"You are feeling better?" he asked kindly.
She nodded, and struggled up into a sitting posture.
"Tell me," she said, "how did he die? It must have been quite sudden. Was
it an accident?--or--or--"
He saw the terror in her eyes, and he spoke quickly. All the time he
found himself wondering how it was that she was guessing at the truth.
"We are afraid," he said "that he was murdered. It is surprising that you
did not read about it in the papers."
She shook her head.
"I do not read much," she said, "and the name was different. Who was
it--that killed him?"
"No one knows," he answered.
"When was it?" she asked.
He told her the date. She repeated it tearfully.
"He was down with me the day before," she said. "He was terribly excited
all the time, and I know that he was a little afraid of something
happening to him. He had been threatened!"
"Do you know by whom?" Wrayson asked.
She shook her head.
"He never told me," she answered. "He didn't tell me much. But he was
very, very good to me. I was at the refreshment-room at London Bridge
when I first met him. He used to come in and see me every day. Then he
began to take me out, and at last he found me a little house down at
Putney, and I was so happy. I had been so tired all my life," she added,
with a little sigh, "and down there I did nothing but rest and rest and
wait for him to come. It was too good to last, of course, but I didn't
think it would end like this!"
Quietly but very persistently Sydney Barnes insisted on being heard.
"It's my turn now," he said, standing by Wrayson's side. "Look here,
Miss, I'm his brother. You can see that, can't you?"
"You are something like him," she admitted, "only he was much, much nicer
to look at than you."
"Never mind that," he continued eagerly. "I'm his brother, his nearest
relative. Everything he left behind belongs to me!"
"Not--quite everything," she protested.
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"You may be his brother," she answered, "but I," holding out her left
hand a little nervously, "I was his wife!"